


Even Scarred Bodies

by icouldgonova



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Era, I just really love these two, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, So many commas, Suicidal Thoughts, a short drabble, could be, i wrote this at like midnight so it's a mess, ish, just a bunch of metaphors, kind of?, les miseables, nothing too intense, really though it's not angsty, sorta - Freeform, when will i chill with the commas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 10:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11942172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icouldgonova/pseuds/icouldgonova
Summary: They were both hurt, dying, falling apart in their own way. One was tearing himself up to save the world. The other was being torn apart by a world that could not save him.Maybe they were doomed. Or maybe they were just lucky.





	Even Scarred Bodies

His body was battered. There were bruises from battles, from rallies and protests. Marks on his skin that showed he had fought, not always won, but fought nonetheless. There had been black eyes and bumps underneath the golden curls, blood under the fingernails. 

There had been scraped knees from when he was little, and had fallen over on the playground. And there had been scraped knuckles from when he was adult, angry at the world, angry because it needed someone to be angry enough to fight for it.

There were tattoos that spoke of rebellion less eloquently but more powerfully than he ever could. 

There were bags under his eyes from the exhaustion of carrying the world on his shoulders. But his shoulders never slumped. His eyes continued to shine with the hope of ‘better’.

His body was battered, but not broken.

 

His body was collapsing. There were bruises from fights, from defending his friends but never himself. There were callouses on his hands to show that he had created beauty, even in a world he saw as desolate. There had been bloody noses and broken bones. 

There was a liver that had grown too tolerant of every day poisons from years of trying to get rid of the pain, the fear. And there were scars tracing their way in neat lines up his wrists and down his thighs. 

There were tattoos that spoke of friends and reminded him why he kept going when he wanted most to stop.

There was paint splashed on his hands and arms, streaked across his face, from the only act of freedom he had ever known. Sometimes his hands bled, but the brush never fell to the floor. 

His body was collapsing, yet he remained standing.

 

One was an explosion. Of anger, of righteousness and justice, of freedom and peace. The other was an implosion. Of hate and disbelief, of friendship and sorrow and fear, but most of all, of love.

One was red; the other, green.

They were rusting metal, being worn away slowly but surely by the ocean’s never-ending waves. They were the sun that would be blocked by oncoming storm clouds. They were ideals fought for by revolutionaries and colors painted by artists; words of uprising spoken by schoolboys and wine on the lips of cynics.

They were the golden light of morning and the dark of the dying day.

In life as in death, the world could not separate them. They made each other whole, by their individual incompleteness.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it was really short and had literally no plot. I wrote it in the middle of the night when I was sad, which is why it's all grammatically incorrect sentences and bad metaphors.
> 
> But anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!!
> 
> As always I love comments (so much)! Please let me know what you thought or if you see any mistakes :)


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